


this script of ours

by Saltlordofold



Category: Suburra - La Serie | Suburra: Blood on Rome (TV)
Genre: (technically??), Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anti-roma language, Babies, Background Oc featured, Biting, Breastfeeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Condoms, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fix-It, Found Family, Gen, Homophobic Language, Kid Fic, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Nipple Play, Obligatory Pasta Scene of course, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, POV Alberto "Spadino" Anacleti, PTSD, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Prison, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Scars, Smoking, Tattoos, Teasing, What-If, aka me giving me the ending i want, idiots to lovers, safe sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:15:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saltlordofold/pseuds/Saltlordofold
Summary: There was no hesitation. As soon as Aureliano stood from behind the jeep and began firing in the open, fully exposed to their opponent’s line of sight, Alberto jumped to his feet. It wasn’t a choice of the mind, rather of a much more primitive place – a pit at the center of his belly, made of sheer terror and instinct – shoving him forward with irresistible force.A split-second decision, a heavy price, a different ending.***This is the English version of my fic"il nostro copione"- The fic is 72k and complete! It will update on Mondays and Thursdays! :D
Relationships: Aureliano Adami/Alberto "Spadino" Anacleti, Nadia Gravone/Angelica Sale
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by my beloved [@cupofrenchtea!](https://twitter.com/CibouPilgrim) Thank you Chief!

Spadino really should not have been as calm as he was, given the situation.

An asphyxiating stench of burnt gasoline rose in black, oily coils from the nearby flaming barrels. Familiar and pungent, the metal sting of gunpowder was everywhere – in the air, on Spadino’s clothes, clinging to his hands, coating his tongue. With nothing more than the body of a wrecked car to shield him from the hail of lead pummelling his way, the only reasonable thing, in that moment, should have been for Spadino to despair, to prepare for death – to pray, perhaps. But instead, against all logic, he was calm. Serene, almost.

He wasn't afraid, because Aureliano had arrived, and with him by his side, Alberto had never been able to lose hope.

When Aureliano had appeared, a few seconds earlier, bursting into the junk-yard in a glorious choir of tire screeches, engine roars, angry shouts and gunfire, Spadino had gone as far as to _smile._ That was how much he trusted that man – and just how wild the burst of joy he had felt, at the mere chance of getting to see his face, even just one last time.

Spadino was watching Aureliano, now, only a few feet away from him, spreading death from behind his own makeshift shelter. The measured tension of his breathing, the steady hold of his ringed hands on the grip of his gun. The set line of his jaw, the cool edge to his blue gaze. A boxer, in the ring – in Spadino’s corner, once again. 

Angelica’s father’s gun, in Spadino’s hand, had clicked empty a while ago. He was unarmed, and out of breath, yes, but with that sight in front of him, how could he despair?

There were only a few of Manfredi and Vincenzo’s men left standing, and even if Aureliano and him were pinned all the way back there, surrounded and alone, with ever-dwindling ammo, there was no doubt in Spadino’s mind that they would make it out of that junkyard. Sooner or later, he knew he would see Aureliano’s eyes, now turned his way, light up with the spark of an idea, a stroke of genius to fix it all. Yet another plan – one more daring shot – to get them both out of danger.

 _Both of them,_ yes, that was what Alberto thought.

But, clearly, Aureliano thought otherwise.

A reassuring smile, then that wink. The second Alberto understood the reason behind that expression, all trace of calm suddenly vanished. In a horrifying flash, that complicit gesture Alberto loved so much became the most terrifying thing he had ever seen.

_"Ciao, fratè."_

"No," was Alberto's only thought, and maybe he even screamed it – loud enough to rip his throat – but if he had, he did not notice it.

There was no hesitation. As soon as Aureliano stood from behind the jeep and began firing in the open, fully exposed to their opponent’s line of sight, Alberto jumped to his feet. It wasn’t a choice of the mind, rather of a much more _primitive_ place – a pit at the centre of his belly, made of sheer terror and instinct – shoving him forward with irresistible force.

With only a couple of strides Alberto was out of cover and throwing himself at Aureliano – hoping, with everything he had, to have gathered enough momentum to drag him back behind the jeep – or to die with him on the spot, if he failed. The collision was harsh enough to knock them both off their feet, and for a moment there was nothing around them but a chaos of screams, flames in the distance, and sparks of bullets ricocheting over metal. Something buzzed right by Alberto's ear, with a sound like a furious wasp, while something else tapped his shoulder.

The impact with the ground was everything but gentle. Alberto felt the rough gravel scratch his face and all air get knocked from his lungs as they crashed down heavily, Aureliano's body landing roughly on top of his own.

But they had made it: they were back behind cover. Somewhere on the other side of the jeep, a man, wounded by Aureliano, was screaming in agony – but another, the last one still standing, had thrown himself back into hiding – to reload, probably. Alberto knew it would take mere seconds for that man to try and make for them again.

But he wasn’t thinking about that danger any more. With unexpected force, and the most scorching rage he had ever felt in his entire life, Alberto grabbed Aureliano by the collar of his jacket and slammed him hard against the side of the car.

"What the _fuck_ was that?!" he screamed, much louder than expected – but Alberto was in control of absolutely nothing, in that moment: not the volume of his voice, nor the pain that made it pitifully crack, nor the trembling of his hands around the black leather of the jacket he was gripping tight enough to turn his knuckles white, "Aurelià, what the fuck were you doing?!"

Sitting with his back pressed against the car, Aureliano wasn’t resisting Alberto’s hold at all. His gaze seemed uncertain, hazy, when he looked up at him. _Surprised._

"You can’t die here," Aureliano said, as if it were that simple, as if it made any sense – as if it were _enough,_ "I won’t let you."

He had spoken with a surprisingly quiet tone, and seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes open. Moved by a horrible instinct, Alberto looked down.

"No," he whined, watching Aureliano’s shirt slowly bloom from dark grey to pitch black in an ever-growing, bloody halo across his belly.

It couldn't be. _He couldn't have failed at that, too._ Alberto immediately lifted Aureliano's shirt, and the bullet wound stared back at him, mockingly – an evil, black eye, weeping red in a steady stream. Blindly, Alberto felt around Aureliano’s body for an exit wound, but couldn’t find one. With shaking hands, he pressed both palms over that awful eye, then – a reflex hammered into him by years spent in close contact with violence. Indifferent to his beggar string of muttered curses, blood kept seeping, hot and slimy, from between Alberto’s fingers – coating his rings, dripping down his knuckles and wrists, making him skid around over skin made slippery by its sheen.

"You should have just let me do it," Aureliano whispered, dazedly watching Alberto struggle, as if unable to feel any pain. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" was all Alberto could manage to croak out, fighting against both blood and a growing nausea – and very aware, in a corner of his mind, that the last enemy had just gotten up from behind his shelter and had started making his way towards them again.

Alberto bit his tongue, hard, doing his best to focus on that pain, anchoring himself to it and to the taste of iron. He had to keep calm – do something, _quickly._ It seemed impossible, with the kind of panic that threatened to overwhelm him, but they were running out of time. Clumsily, Alberto moved one hand away from the wound to feel for the gun still in Aureliano’s hand. Was it even still loaded? The metal of the overworked barrel was hot enough to burn the back of Alberto’s fingers when they made contact with it. The enemy man was only a few steps away, Alberto could feel it. _There was no time._

Raising blurry eyes to his, despite the wound, Aureliano understood.

"Albè," he warned him.

His gaze darted to the side, and his fingers gripped tight around Alberto’s shoulder.

"Get down," he said, and Alberto barely had time to catch a flash at the side of the car, glimpse of flames reflected in the steel of a weapon, before Aureliano raised his gun to fire. 

The discharge, merely inches from his ear, deafened Alberto completely. In the unnatural silence that followed, Alberto only felt through the vibrations of the car the man violently bounce off the trunk of the jeep and collapse down to the ground. Stunned as from a mean punch to the temple, Alberto tried to blink away the blur that had overtaken his vision. In doing so, he realized that, by reflex, he had slammed both hands on the jeep in front of him, one on each side of Aureliano's face, and that he had thrown his whole body across the other man’s, to shield him however he could. Aureliano, to support his aim, had grabbed on to him, hand pressed at the back of Alberto’s neck – holding him close.

Muffled, distorted sound rushed back to Alberto, like the crash of a tall wave. With it came a needle-thin whistle, low at first, then growing and growing in volume, until it became a shrill ring loud enough to split his head. Aureliano's right arm shook, and Alberto felt the gun fall to the ground behind him. But the hold on his neck, although weak, remained.

Alberto’s cheeks were wet, he realized, but he had no idea when or how that had happened. Bowing his head, jaw clenched, he pressed his forehead against the warm metal of the car’s side, and let himself go to that absurd embrace. 

"You fucking asshole," Alberto grit against Aureliano's neck – with that deafening ringing in his ears, and the iron smell of blood all around them, strong enough to choke, “I can’t believe you.”

His hands slipped away from the bodywork, leaving shiny smears of blood behind them. Alberto went back to trying to cover the wound as best he could, but his head was spinning, and his hands felt like they were swimming in blood, rather than holding it in. Aureliano drew a shaky breath against Alberto’s chest – an awful, _wrong_ -sounding one, way too short, way too raspy. He shivered, but also held Alberto even closer, with his hand still pressed at the base of his hair, and the other raising to grab his wrist, soft against his bleeding stomach.

"I couldn’t watch you die," Aureliano whispered, hoarse, face buried against Alberto’s shoulder, “I couldn’t- I just couldn’t.”

Alberto squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to contain the painful sob that threatened to tear through his chest. But it was impossible to hold back that pain, and the suffocating fear that came with it: Alberto could see himself, kneeling on that rough gravel, cradling Aureliano’s lifeless face in his hands. Watching those beloved eyes go blank, feeling that strong body collapse into his arms, go limp against his – leaving nothing for Alberto to hold but a cold and empty shell.

No. It couldn’t happen.

“Because you think _I_ can?" Alberto hissed out, with barely contained venom.

He meant to straighten up, but he lacked the strength, he realized. All that was holding Alberto up, in that moment, was Aureliano’s hold, and the pressure of his forehead against the warm metal of the car. Alberto cursed himself. How could he always be so bloody weak?

 _Rage._ That was something he could hold on to. Pulling up with his nose, with another whispered curse Alberto finally managed to lean back. He couldn’t afford to crumble, not with Aureliano in that state. He had to keep moving. The man on the ground behind the jeep had stopped screaming, and the junk-yard had gone silent, save for the low rumble of the gasoline fire – and that ringing in Alberto’s ears, still deafeningly loud. Despite that calm, the fight was by no means over.

Shrugging off his hoodie, Spadino balled it up tightly to replace his trembling, useless hands on Aureliano's wound.

"You really don’t understand jack shit, do you?" Alberto growled, wiping at his eyes with his free hand, hoping to clear up his vision, and prepare for the next step however he could, "Do you really think that without you, I-"

"Albè," Aureliano interrupted, looking up at him with wide eyes.

He seemed much more awake, all of the sudden. A thick smear of blood had appeared all over the right side of his face – the one that had been pressed against Alberto chest.

"Your shoulder."

Alberto looked down at himself, and for the first time, he noticed the cascade of blood that coated the whole left side of his torso. His t-shirt was soaked through with it, warm and glued to his skin all over the front of him, and down his back. _Ah._ The sensation around his collarbone was like a stab, cold and electric, buzzing all the way across his body from side to side – yet feeling strangely distant. 

Okay. _Maybe_ that was why everything was spinning around him so nauseatingly fast, and why it felt like every single muscle in Alberto’s body had suddenly turned to useless cotton.

He shook his head.

"It’s nothing," Alberto declared, as if deciding as much could be enough to make it true.

It _had_ to be enough, because Alberto still needed his strength.

Pulling up with his nose, Alberto grabbed Aureliano under the arms, and started trying to haul him up on his feet.

“Get up,” he hissed, teeth gritted with effort, “Aurelià, come on, stand up. We can’t stay here."

Aureliano was heavy – probably _too_ heavy for him – but giving up was simply _out of the question._

Alberto changed his grip, grabbing onto the body of the jeep as best he could with one hand, and circling Aureliano's waist with the other, struggling to try to lift him without letting the sweatshirt fall from the wound.

"You wanted to pull this bullshit stunt?" he grunted, aware that his voice was breaking again, but unable to do anything about it, “Then give me a fucking hand, now, will you? Aurelià, come on. Get up!"

Aberto’s hold on the the smooth metal slipped from his bloody fingers. Just in time, he managed to grab onto the door handle, barely preventing himself from collapsing pathetically to the ground.

Alberto was back at the starting point: pressed against Aureliano chest, face buried in his neck. He smelled of gunpowder, there, mixed in with sweat, and so much blood – a very _wrong_ version of his familiar, beloved smell – and the skin of his neck was cool and wet against Alberto's cheek. _Much_ too cool.

“Aurelià, _please,_ " Alberto begged him, clutching the black jacket between his fingers and feeling two new, burning tears slide down his cheeks, "Please, get up.”

He closed his eyes.

“You know I’m not leaving this place without you,” he whispered, meaning every word.

Slowly, Aureliano's hand started moving again on Alberto’s back.

"Hold on," he said quietly.

His voice was groggy, as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep. The breath he drew was shaky, but when he clung to Alberto, he did so with more strength than before.

"Together," Aureliano said, firmly, and Alberto, with a sob of overwhelmed relief, nodded into his shoulder.

Aureliano was still by his side. How dare he lose hope?

“Okay,” Alberto said, taking a deep, steadying breath, “Okay, big guy, come on. On three. One two-"

Luckily there was the car to hold onto, and Aureliano who, clinging to Alberto’s back, did his best to help him push up. Alberto used the right side of the body as much as possible, because the whole left of him felt numb, useless. With a joint growl of effort and pain, they managed to get to their feet, more or less steadily.

Alberto, with one arm on either side of Aureliano, grabbed the body of the car, fighting through a long, nauseating fit of vertigo. Aureliano gave a couple of weak coughs, shivering again and leaning onto Alberto’s good shoulder. Against his chest, Alberto could feel Aureliano’s heartbeat – too shallow, and too fast-paced, but still strong. They were both thoroughly out of breath.

"Hey," Aureliano rasped out, watching with a dazed, worried frown as Alberto swayed unsteadily back and forth.

Alberto did his best to force the screams of his shoulder back into a corner of his mind where he would not be able to hear them. He couldn’t crumble. _He had to keep moving._ Grabbing Aureliano’s side for support, Alberto leaned back.

"I'm fine," he lied, "Just hold on to this."

Pressing the balled-up hoodie over Aureliano’s wound, Alberto took the man’s shaking hand and lead it on the sweatshirt to replace his own.

"Keep it there,” Alberto instructed, “Hard. Can you do it?"

With his jaw set, Aureliano swallowed in pain, but nodded. For the first time in what felt like minutes, to them, but was probably only seconds, they exchanged a look.

But Alberto couldn't deal with anything, in that moment, much less an emotion. He shoved it all away: speeches and condemnations, fears and hopes – saving them for later. He had to concentrate, now – if he wanted there to be a _later_ in the first place.

"Give me your arm," Alberto just said.

Slipping under Aureliano’s shoulder to support him, Alberto opened the car door to help him into the driver’s seat. There was glass everywhere in the cockpit, from all the shattered windows. Aureliano seemed to also have decided to focus on nothing but the task at hand, because he had that boxer's expression on his face again – determined, although drowsy. He helped Alberto as much as he could: once inside, Aureliano grabbed the headrest, while Alberto held on to the wheel. With another grunt of common effort, they managed to slide Aureliano all the way to the passenger side. The car keys were still in the panel, and Alberto, struggling for breath, let himself fall back in the driver’s seat.

 _"Start,"_ he prayed the car, turning the key in the ignition and pushing the clutch pedal.

The jeep came alive with the usual roar, and without any strange noises. Alberto let out a trembling sigh of relief: it looked like neither the engine nor the gas tank had gotten too banged-up in the fire-fight.

Aureliano threw his head back against the headrest, closing his eyes.

"Finally, some fucking luck," he muttered, and even if it made no sense, Alberto couldn’t stop a weak, disarmed laugh in hearing him joke, even right then, even like that.

The sound that came out of him was short, breathless and a little too close to another sob for Alberto’s comfort, but Aureliano smiled anyway, darting him a dazed look – and frankly, at that point, nothing else mattered.

That smile didn't last, though.

"Alberto," Aureliano said softly, "Your brother."

Alberto, who was getting ready to close the car door, looked up, following Aureliano’s gaze.

Manfredi, leaving a dark trail in the dirt behind him, had somehow managed to get himself to the door of the small office building. He was sitting with his back to the door-frame, now, facing them. Watching Alberto.

_Waiting for him._

"I'll handle it," Alberto said coldly.

In all likelihood, if they left him there, Manfredi would surely have died on his own. But this was _Manfredi,_ they were talking about: he had challenged the odds enough. Even with what little time they had available, Alberto and Aureliano had finished taking chances, when it came to him.

"Wait here," Alberto instructed, leaving the engine running and getting out of the cockpit best he could.

"Wasn’t planning on prancing away," he had time to hear Aureliano cough, “Believe it or not.”

Another weak joke, which gave Alberto all the courage he needed. He crossed that short distance to the building determined, doing his best to ignore the vertigo that threatened to make him trip. 

Manfredi calmly watched him approach. He was holding onto his leg, but despite the makeshift tourniquet, his face had started to go grey, and his eyes were tired. But still alert. Unlike the last time they had faced off like that, Alberto felt nothing but a deep hatred, when looking at those eyes – bitter poison on his tongue. Manfredi had betrayed him, once again. Angelica had almost died, because of him, and _Rubina_ with her. And now Aureliano, too.

Ten more eyes, still and white against a handle of black bone, looked up at Alberto from the ground in front of the door. Bending down, Alberto picked up their father's knife from the gravel. _Just like Manfredi had taught him._

"You missed your shot, this time," Alberto said, with no other prelude or greeting, “Isn’t that right, Manfrè?”

"You think so?” Manfredi answered, managing – despite everything – to smile up at him, "’Cause that big strong _husband_ of yours isn’t looking all that fresh, if you ask me."

 _Of course._ Of course Manfredi would use his last words to mock him one more time. Alberto adjusted his fingers around the handle of the knife. The heat from the nearby fire burned the side of his face in long, searing flashes. 

There was no time for Manfredi’s provocations.

"I hope you enjoyed that laugh," Alberto simply said, voice blank, before leaning over his brother.

With a bloody hand, Alberto grabbed Manfredi’s short hair. In a flash, he remembered the acrid smell of wool, the fear in a sheep’s desperate yelps. Unlike that animal, Manfredi did not struggle at all under his hold. Perhaps he was already too weak – but even if he hadn’t been, Alberto knew the truth: his brother’s blood has always been much colder than any other beasts’, and his pride simply too great for him to ever be able to beg. 

The look Manfredi raised to Alberto, in fact, was almost amused. Curious to know if, at least once, the little brother he had brought up himself would finally show even a fraction of the kind of courage he had tried to impart on him.

Alberto did not look away.

No matter how strong a man, if one knew where to aim, the flesh of a neck was weak. The knife sunk down all the way to the handle in Manfredi's throat. When Alberto pulled it out, blood gushed from the wound more limply than what he was used to – but still _enough._ Manfredi's eyes were still looking up at him, but they no longer saw him.

Alberto did not close them.

"You did come here to die, in the end," he quietly said, instead.

When Alberto turned away, other eyes were there to greet him. Blue ones, even if from all the way there, in the trembling red fire-light, one couldn’t really tell. Despite the pain, and the obvious effort it took to keep himself up straight against the car seat, Aureliano gave Alberto a solemn nod. 

Alberto returned it, breathing in deep. It was done.

But it wasn’t the time for either grief, or gratitude.

With a groan of effort, pushing himself up on Manfredi’s still shoulder, Alberto managed to get standing again. For a long, nauseating instant, the whole square spun around him – a merry-go-round of fire and metal, of dirt and corpses – a macabre kind of dance.

But Alberto could not faint: Aureliano still needed help. Breathing in deep, Alberto forced himself to take one step forward, then another. Holding onto the wall for support, then to Aureliano’s gaze, then the hood of the car, Alberto managed to reach the cockpit again, and pull himself behind the wheel.

"Come on," Alberto simply said, slamming the door shut, "Let’s get the hell out of here."

Alberto only remembered the following moments in flashes. Bursts of vague impressions, clipped and out-of-focus, of blurry street-lamps, trees and dark asphalt rushing by the car. If there were other vehicles around, Alberto did not seen them.

"We’re almost there," he remembered saying, at some point.

It was a lie, he knew that. A fat one, too. Not only were they still far from their destination, but the jeep had a flat tire, and the black road swayed dangerously in front of Alberto, lit by a single, blinking headlight. Driving to the usual doctor's house like that would be no walk in the park. But Alberto would have made it.

He _had_ to make it.

"It hurts, Albè," Aureliano whispered, in a hoarse voice.

Alberto shook his head, squinting to make out the letters of some road sign ahead of him – not very successfully. He knew the way by heart, but with his vision so blurry, he wasn't completely sure of himself anymore.

"No, it doesn’t," he still said, trying to sound confident, "It’s nothing – a little scratch, is all. The Doc’ll fix you up, anyway. You’ll be out in no time. I promise."

Alberto blinked, a couple of times. His eyes stung as if from sleep. He rubbed at them, hard, feeling flakes of clotted blood cling to his eyelids from his tacky fingers.

"I’m taking you home," he went on, hoping that talking would help them both stay awake, "Let's go home, yeah? Aurelià?"

Aureliano did not answer. When Alberto turned to check why, his heart sunk right in his chest. 

In the passenger seat, Aureliano was horribly pale. Gray, like Manfredi. His eyes were barely open, encircled in a terrifying ring of ashy blue. His forehead was pressed against the window, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his hands were in his lap, cupping the useless hoodie, long-forgotten.

His eyes shifted to find Alberto’s, throwing him another hazy side glance – stupidly soft, stupidly _complicit._

"We really made a mess, huh?" Aureliano murmured – barely a whisper – with the ghost of a smile hovering on pale lips.

Alberto felt his vision blur again, watching powerless as Aureliano’s gaze lost itself back to some middle distance. Panic flared in his chest, gripping mercilessly at his throat – raising waters creeping over his mouth and nose to drown him down. 

It was obvious: Aureliano was slipping away. He wasn't going to make it to the doctor’s house.

He was leaving him.

"Fuck," Alberto whimpered.

There was only one thing left to do. It should have been a difficult decision, in theory, but it ended up being the easiest Alberto ever took. With a single curse and a weak blow to the steering wheel, Alberto changed up his plans.

He remembered even less, after that. The spinning lights of the parked ambulances, the screech of brakes in front of tall glass doors. The horrified looks on the faces of the nurses, patients and families present as Alberto staggered inside with Aureliano half-slumped against him, and finally crumbled to his knees on the cream marble of the floor.

“Don't look at me,” Alberto groaned in protest, as the first hands rushed to touch him, “Are you blind? Look at him, goddammit. Help him."

Nobody was listening to him, but Alberto could not do much about it. All he could do was look at Aureliano, laying on his back in the middle of a confusing whirlwind of hands, tubes and gauzes, which had started to appear seemingly out of nowhere.

"Albè?" Aureliano rasped out.

He was searching for Alberto gaze, but it was obvious that he could barely see him.

"Where are we?"

Alberto had left all weapons in the car, but he knew that it wouldn’t keep anyone from understanding the situation for very long. Two bloodied-up men, rushing in aboard a jeep riddled with bullet holes, in an Ostia that had spent the last several weeks slowly turning into an all-out war-zone?

There was only one call to make.

“Aurelià, listen to me,” Alberto said, trying to talk clearly, despite the haze mixing up words in his head, “The pigs are gonna be here any minute. Don’t say a word, okay? I'll take care of them. I’ll spin them a yarn like you won’t believe, trust me. As soon as you can, just call Angelica, and she’ll take care of everything. Got it?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Alberto caught a glimpse of the first security uniform. Fighting the arms holding him back, Alberto crawled as close to Aureliano as he could get. Hands were lifting him, _Aurelià,_ his tired boxer – who had fought on so bravely. They moved him to a stretcher, securing him tight. A pair of scissors quickly sliced open his t-shirt, while someone pressed an oxygen mask over his mouth. Alberto could feel hands tugging at him, and distant voices yelling not to move, but he paid them no mind.

He felt strangely serene again. The pain in his shoulder was gone. Maybe they had shot him up with something? It didn't matter. Aureliano was safe. They were taking care of him.

Alberto smiled.

"I want to tell you a secret," he said softly, while Aureliano looked up at him with increasingly cloudy eyes, from behind that clear mask which fogged on and off at each of his short breaths, "Even though you already know it."

That barely-secret secret. Those three little words, so simple, yet so heavy with meaning. Alberto said them to Aureliano while on his knees, bleeding with him on the floor of that emergency room. He said them in front of everyone: doctors, nurses, patients and cops alike – because he didn’t know if he’d ever get another chance to try, because he wasn’t even sure that Aureliano could understand him, because Alberto could feel he was about to faint, because he couldn't give a fuck about any of it, anymore.

Pain fogged up Aureliano’s eyes – making them overflow, shiny blue pools under the crude neon lights.

"Albè-" he weakly started.

If he said anything else, however, Alberto did not get to hear it, because suddenly they pulled up Aureliano’s stretcher, ripping him from his sight, and right after that, everything went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

In the darkness behind closed eyelids, Spadino saw nothing but sparks.

"Anacleti!"

He ignored the distant voice calling out for him. One more pull-up. Ever since his shoulder had stopped giving him trouble, pull-ups were his favourite exercise. Spadino focused on the familiar burn in his arms, chest and back as he lifted himself up one more time, slowly controlling his way down as well. He welcomed the friendly pain, letting it flood his mind, and gently drown out his thoughts in wave after wave of sweet, masochistic endorphin.

“Anacle- Jesus Christ, this piece of- _Hey!”_

Spadino paid the voice no more mind than the first time. One more pull-up. He knew why he was being called, in theory. But, like most people in that sad place, Spadino had long since stopped assuming things before hearing them spoken plainly – especially if it was meant to be _good_ news – so he did not feel the need to hurry. Another pull-up. The metal bar had gotten hot and sticky, dangerously sleek under his hands. He had gotten used to the shitty equipment a long time ago, however, and wasn’t going to start letting it jeopardize his training today, of all days.

"Anacleti, you shit-stain," the familiar voice repeated, much closer this time, “You’re not _that_ deaf, I know you can hear me! Are you going to stop on your own, or am I going to have to pull you down?"

Then, finally, the words Spadino had been waiting for:

"It's time."

Spadino wrapped up his rep carefully, resting his chin over the pull-up bar – one last breath – before letting himself go. He landed lightly on the gravel of the courtyard. That was the last time he had done that, he realized.

Spadino looked around, breathing in the smell of wet dust. A sad, familiar sight welcomed him: the crowd of inmates strolling slowly around the grey courtyard, with just a pocket of blue sky between high walls above them – with barbed wire framing it, like dangerous coils of shiny silver bramble. 

And the angry face of the screw, of course, still striding angrily toward him like a dyed-blonde, mad bull.

"We don't have all fucking day," the middle-aged officer winced, clearly winded from the brisk walk he’d just taken, "Unless you’ve decided to stick around, after all?"

He didn't give Spadino any time to answer: spinning on his heels, the man immediately started back towards the central building – with only the jingle of keys on his belt following in his footsteps.

"I’ve never seen Maggi in such a hurry," Er Gigante noted, with an amused snort, "I think he can’t wait for you to finally get the fuck out of here."

Spadino gratefully accepted the towel the kid was handing him. Patting down his face and neck, with one last breath of damp earth, Spadino finally set off towards the building.

"Bullshit," he scoffed back, "That guy’ll be crying into his pillow, tonight, knowing my pretty face won’t be here to welcome him when he clocks back in tomorrow."

Er Gigante rolled his eyes in a well-trained gesture. In pure Roman taste, the nineteen year old – half-Lebanese and half, in his own words, "who fucking knows" – earned himself that nickname for being rather _vertically challenged,_ as Spadino liked to put it. No two ways around it: the kid was shorter than him, which was enough to declare that although he was built solid, nature had not exactly been _generous_ to him in the height department. 

"I hate you so much," Er Gigante sighed, shoving both hands in his pockets, "Bastard. I still can’t believe you're getting out so soon."

"That makes two of us, kid."

It was true: Spadino didn't exactly believe it – but he didn't deny it, either. He handled it the way he'd been handling everything for months, now: trying to focus on the next step alone, and not dwell too much on the future in general. He had long since learned – at no small cost – the risks of doing things otherwise, in there.

But in that moment, there was still something – a _big_ something – insistently nagging at Spadino’s well-kept wall of control. The trick was to ignore it hard enough, and making fun of the kid was always a good distraction.

"Are you also going to be slobbering after me, tonight?" he teased, and the Giant lowered his head, with that tired little grin of his.

"Yeah, right. From _joy,_ maybe," he retorted, "With your loud ass gone, maybe we’ll finally get some quiet, in here. I can't fucking wait."

Maggi was waiting for them by the door. Passing by him, Spadino gifted the screw a sarcastic bow of his head, and the usual hand flourish. The officer scoffed, but for once, he said nothing: perhaps he had granted Spadino one last insolence, for old time’s sake.

"Aren't you going to swing by your cell?" he asked instead, and Spadino just shrugged.

"I already handled everything yesterday," he replied, "Maggi, _love,_ you know we aren’t all paid to loaf around here like you are, right?"

The man’s mouth twisted, and he deliberately adjusted his hand on the strap of his baton. Perhaps Spadino would be wise not to pull too hard on that rare string of patience.

"Time to say goodbye, then," Maggi ordered, with a vague gesture around them, "And get a move on, don't make me repeat it."

A fair crowd had gathered in the central square, as was the custom for releases. Inmates who had not climbed down the many floors of the cell-block were leaning over the rails, rows and rows of men of all ages looking down from the metal balconies. Spadino returned a few nods, but he had already said what he had to say to the relevant people. To the others, Spadino had said nothing at all – especially with this release date closing in: it was not uncommon, after all, even for someone like him, to have their exit jeopardized by some jealous prick with a longer sentence. And Spadino had plenty of people jealous of him, that day – pretty justifiably so. Judging by the dirty looks he felt digging at the back of his neck, he had done well to remain cautious.

"Well?" said Er Gigante, stopping in the middle of the square.

They had reached the security gate. Maggi was waiting by it, exchanging a few words with the guard stationed on the other side of the safety window.

"You heard The Man," Er Gigante smiled, taking back his towel, "Say goodbye, asshole."

Spadino clapped the boy’s offered hand in the ritual greeting, but couldn't resist landing one last playful slap at the back of his neck. Er Gigante grimaced, but made no move to evade. For old time’s sake, too, Spadino guessed.

"If you ever need work, you know where to come knocking," Spadino reminded.

"Right," the boy sarcastically nodded, throwing the towel over his shoulder and shoving his hands back in his pockets, "In the meantime, just go out for some pizza in my name, will you?"

Spadino looked at the Giant: his short black curls, the still-soft line of his jaw, those big brown eyes. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't worry about that kid. That went against his rules on how to handle things on the inside – _his strategy._

"I'll hold on," Spadino promised, happy to hear that his nonchalant mask showed no cracks, "We’ll go together, and I’ll buy."

 _"Daje,"_ the boy agreed, with that ever-exhausted smirk.

It was time for one last bit of showmanship – Spadino wouldn't have recognized himself without it. Spinning on himself, he clapped his hands a couple of times, drawing the full attention of the room.

"So long, everybody!" he declared, with all due emphasis, "Spadino’s outta here. I’d tell you to play nice, but I know that you’re all my little angels. So I'll just tell you this-"

He concluded with a big noisy kiss to his audience, and a heartfelt wink. There were a fair bit of insults mixed with the hoots and whistles that answered him, but Spadino only smiled. The least he could do for that crowd was to give it something to talk about, even for just one afternoon – fodder to fend off the boredom that always reigned supreme over that place.

Er Gigante shook his head, with much over-played exasperation, but there were no last words to be exchanged, because immediately Spadino felt Maggi's big hand slam down on his shoulder.

 _"King of the Gypsies,_ my ass," the man said, pulling Spadino away roughly, "When it comes to _this_ court, you’re always the same fucking fool, aren’t you?”

Without further ceremony, Maggi shoved Spadino through the heavy armoured door. Spadino dusted off his shirt, answering only with another wink and the fakest smile he could muster.

It was for the best: prolonged goodbyes had never been to his liking.

Gates, gates, and more gates. Spadino had nothing to carry except for his bag of clean clothes, handed to him by the guard stationed between the second and first levels of security. He had already given out his few inside belongings a couple of days ago – cigarettes and crossword puzzles for Matusalemme, what little food and hash was left for Er Gigante, various other small things to whoever he had gotten along with. Spadino had only one thing left in his possession, and, as often, he realized that he had absent-mindedly flattened his hand over it, through the fabric of his pocket.

It had been ages since he had last needed to actually pull out the photograph in order to be able to see it, in every sharp detail, right before his eyes.

The _something_ bubbled, insistent. Stopping near Maggi to wait for yet another chipped white gate to slide open, Spadino realized he was tapping his foot on the cement ground. He forced it still, not wanting to appear nervous. Not that it mattered all that much anymore, truth be told, how strong or weak he showed himself to be, in there. But, this close to Maggi, such old reflexes were hard to give up.

The idea of saying goodbye to the man didn't even cross Spadino's mind, and clearly the feeling was mutual, because once he had handed him out to the duo of his colleagues in charge of releases, Maggi turned around and left without a word. By way of farewell, Spadino only slipped that asshole a silent curse for every gratuitous baton blow he had seen him land in the face of some defenceless inmate. There were a lot of those, so the activity had the added benefit of keeping Spadino’s mind busy for a few extra minutes, while the new guards – a bored white woman in her forties, and a young black man who could not more obviously have been a rookie – pointed him towards a table and a curtain behind which he could change. Spadino almost forgot to walk behind it, with how unfamiliar he had become with the concept of privacy.

Once he had shaken off his sweatpants and shirt – goodbye, grey and stretched-out cotton, it wouldn't be missed one bit – Spadino flattened the photograph on the cold metal of the table. Carefully, he smoothed out the slightly wrinkled top corner, and allowed himself a second to really look at it.

Rubina was not really looking towards the camera, rather at something indistinct right next to it. Maybe some movement in the room, but more likely, nothing at all: she was only a few hours old, after all, when that picture was taken. She was still all red and wrinkly, like a little plum, making her face look somewhat annoyed. _"What the hell did you just wake me up for?"_ she seemed to be wondering. At the top left of Rubina’s forehead, there was a birthmark, a roundish speck the color of milk coffee. Alberto saw a different shape in it every day – in that moment, it looked like a rose. 

Alberto smiled at Rubina, like he always did in the rare moments when he managed to be alone. He smiled at Angelica, too, with her exhausted but radiant laugh turned directly at the camera, and at Nadia, who only had eyes for the baby, and was circling both her and Angè with a protective arm covered in tattooed roses. Alberto closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He was so close to seeing all three of them, in flesh and blood – them, as well as the man responsible for the shot. The idea caused the _something_ to bubble up like little else was capable of doing, so Spadino forced it back behind the wall, shifting his focus back to the matter at hand.

It was surreal, he thought, looking at the brown paper bag on the table, under the crude neon lights. In a way, his whole life – the real one – was contained in that anonymous package. Without dwelling any further, Spadino took out the bag’s contents, spreading them out on the table to take inventory.

It was like looking backwards in time, really – which didn't make things any easier. The girls had picked out one of his flashiest shirts for him, carefully paired to a fancy jacket, and they had also added a few rings and necklaces to the outfit, carefully slipped in a paper envelope. Knowing the place, Spadino would have ben amazed if none of those had gone missing along the way, to be frank.

He really didn’t feel like wearing all that _bling,_ anyway. After changing, Spadino only put on his wedding ring, and his earring – red stone circled by simple gold band – and slipped the rest in his pocket alongside the photo. Everything fit him a little tighter than he remembered, but luckily Nadia and Angelica had picked rather cosy stuff, so he wasn’t uncomfortably tight, either. Shrugging on the jacket, Spadino emerged from behind the curtain. There was a sink in the room: he used it to clean his hands carefully, up to his forearms – no way in hell would he touch anything of The Out with his hands still dirty from that place.

Especially things as precious as those he was to meet that very evening.

"Ready?" the rookie guard smiled, once Spadino was done with that too.

He was barely older than Spadino – and very handsome, with high cheekbones and a noble profile – and he looked kind. Spadino wondered how many months – weeks, rather – a guy like that would be able to last within those walls.

He nodded yes, even though the question was stupid: how the hell was one supposed to be ready, for that kind of situation?

In an office, Spadino signed some papers, under the heavy gaze of more guards. He heard them talk about him, exchanging scornful words and hushed rumours about his release.

"What about the fire in Ostia Police Station?" the woman from earlier was whispering in the ear of her administration colleague, “With all that evidence inside? Does that look like a coincidence, to you?"

 _If only you knew,_ Alberto thought, but bitterness was no more useful a feeling than any of the others, so he shoved it aside too. The rookie took no part in the gossip, rather going over Spadino's papers carefully, double-checking everything with diligence. _Cute._ Maggi would have killed off that over-zealous attitude of his in two days, tops.

Spadino barely felt the wait of the last few checkpoints. The rookie was the last one to accompany him, opening the final gate to the parking lot himself.

"Good luck with everything, then," the man said – or something in that vein, because Spadino wasn't listening to him at all.

He was way too focused on trying to wrap his head around the fact that, all of a sudden, he was _out._

The gate closed behind Spadino with a rusty screech. The weather wasn't warm, but the sun was out, bright despite already being well on its way down. All Spadino had in front of him was an ugly grey parking lot, and a few crude buildings, but still the sky – pure blue, with only a faint mist of distant clouds – looked huge to him. 

Spadino raised a hand to cover his eyes, suddenly blinded by a flash of sunlight bouncing off the window of an opening car door.

"Albè!"

That voice. Spadino slowly lowered his hand. Maybe he had ended up putting _too_ much effort, into his strategy of not projecting himself into the future, because watching that tall, familiar figure slip down smoothly from the hood of the jeep it had been sitting on, it sunk into Spadino just how little he was actually prepared to deal with the impact of seeing _him,_ for the first time in more than a year.

Of seeing that face, those ringed hands, those two black wings raising over the collar of a fresh leather jacked, and those eyes – _especially_ those eyes: the same color as the sky, appearing from behind slowly raised sunglasses.

They had talked over the phone, of course they had. More than a few times, too, during the months when Spadino still had his phone rights. But whenever they did, it was always to talk about concrete stuff: their health, the baby, lawyers – and business as well, discreetly. The topic of that specific moment had never been brought up – just like that night at the junkyard hadn’t either. Not even once.

Spadino had gotten the unspoken message: that day, the words that had come out of it, it was all to be treated as they would have a shared nightmare: a somewhat shameful blur it would have been rather _uncalled for_ to bring up. They probably both remembered it very poorly and very differently, anyway – especially towards the end. The only thing that mattered was the result, and there was already more than enough to handle with that. So, it was best to keep everything about that night quiet, and forgotten.

That was a silent pact Spadino had accepted with his fair share of relief. But still, it was quite another thing to see Aureliano, real, solid, right in front of him, for the first time since that bloody night, and to have to keep at bay a sudden surge of memories – and a painful twist of the _something,_ buckling wild against Spadino’s weakened barriers. 

Ripping his eyes from the man in front of him, Spadino forced himself to walk. He had done his very best, over those long months, to not dwell on that kind of memory – but he hadn’t been able to ward all of it off, either. During the long weeks spent between the four suffocating walls of his solitary confinement cell, especially: there, it was true, covered in bandages and high off his mind on whatever drugs they had shot him full of, Alberto had let himself slip into some nightmares – and maybe even into some fantasy.

The upside of that was that at least he wasn't _completely_ surprised, when the images started flashing in front of his eyes – and the smell of burn gasoline crawled up his nose in long, asphyxiating waves. The sky switching back and forth from day to night with every blink didn’t catch him off-guard, and neither did the burnt-up car bodies replacing the very much intact vehicles of the parking lot when he glanced at them with the corner of his eye. His palms were coated with the sticky wetness of blood, and another's man broken breaths fluttered against his chest, but for better or for worse, Alberto had felt it all happen before, so it wasn’t all that difficult to not let anything show on his face.

At least he hoped so.

Spadino stopped, finding himself sooner than expected in front of a familiar, offered hand. He knew most of those rings, but a couple were new. No trace of blood, on those fingers – for quite some time, now. Spadino took that hand – he _clung_ to it – and felt himself being pulled into a tight embrace. 

He hadn't been hugged in a lifetime. The feeling would probably have been overwhelming, if those arms had belonged to anyone else.

Even his smell was the same.

"Hi, Aurelià," Alberto whispered, held tight against that familiar chest.

"Hey," Aureliano simply replied – just as quietly.

Then, he began to laugh. Alberto closed his eyes. In an instant, gasoline, blood and fire were all back where they belonged: at the back of his mind, nothing more than vague harmless memories.

God, how he’d missed that laugh.

After landing a single, heartfelt pat on his back, Aureliano gently pushed Alberto away. He grabbed him by the shoulders, keeping him at arm’s length, looking him up and down.

 _"Jesus,"_ Aureliano laughed – almost too blinding a vision for Alberto: that sunny smile, that squint of blue eyes, the perfect lines at the corners of them and around his mouth, "Look at you! You got jacked as hell! How much did you gain, man?”

Slowly, Alberto smiled back. How grateful he was to that man, for being like he was: always able to make everything so much simpler, with just a joke. If that routine of theirs hadn’t changed, then going back to how they were before would turn out to be even easier than Alberto thought.

"You know, I actually have no idea," Spadino answered, again the smug, easy-going version of himself, "No scales in each cell, believe it or not. Budget cuts, you know how it is." 

He pulled back a little, running a hand behind his neck.

"Anyway, can’t be _that_ much, with the shit they fed us," he joked, allowing himself to take a longer look at the man in front of him.

Aureliano, unlike him, had lost quite a bit of weight, but other than that, he looked fine. He’d definitely shed a few pounds, yes, it was clear in the sharper line of his cheekbones, and in the narrower shape of his shoulders. He kept his beard a little shorter, his hair a little longer, and he looked a little tired. But he was still the same Aureliano. 

Alberto wisely kept his eyes from darting down towards his belly.

"Hey, Spadì," Flavio came in, a blessed distraction.

Poor thing, Spadino hadn't even noticed he was there.

"Hi, Flavio," he greeted back with a firm handshake, feeling a little guilty, "How’s it going, man?"

Flavio made a non-committal noise. He hadn't changed much either, in a year, except for a calmer feeling about him. More mature, perhaps.

"Not too shabby," Flavio shrugged.

Aureliano whacked him on the shoulder.

"Don’t go acting modest," he teased him.

"Yeah, don't fuck with me," Spadino doubled down, "From what I heard, some congratulations are in order."

Flavio lowered his head, smiling as if embarrassed.

"So you heard, huh?"

"Course I did," Spadino scoffed, pointing a thumb behind him, "Bunch of gossip girls, in there, don’t you know?"

He stopped, grimaced, then clapped his hands together.

"By the way, would you guys mind getting me the fuck out of here?" Spadino asked, with a meaningful wince, “Not that you’re boring me, but I don’t exactly care much for bumming around this place. Get what I mean?"

Flavio immediately threw Aureliano the car keys.

"Loud and clear," Aureliano said, grabbing them mid-flight and flicking his sunglasses back down, "C’mon, let’s get you out of this shithole."

He opened the passenger door for Spadino, nodding him in. The jeep was a new model, much lighter in color than the previous one. _Thankfully._ Spadino thanked Aureliano with the usual curtsy. It was practically a reflex gesture, but it still made Aureliano smile, and by God, had Alberto missed that, too.

While Aureliano circled the car, to be sure not to stare at him for too long, Spadino turned to look at Flavio, instead, who had climbed in the back-seat.

"Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, with a respectful whistle, “The Boss of North Rome, himself." 

Flavio shrugged again, raising his hands as if to say "guilty." That more mature air of his came back to his features immediately, though. He lowered his hands, letting them hang, clasped together, between his knees.

"Zaccardelli tried to fuck us, with the new situation," Flavio said, rather coldly, "But I’m afraid he picked the wrong time to try."

"You can say _that_ again," Aureliano scoffed, sliding behind the wheel, "Nadia and you ripped that rat bastard to shreds."

Spadino did not ask for more details: he did not really need them, having already heard of the violent tale – made of nightly ambushes and bloody regrets – through the grapevine inside the prison. More importantly, it would just have been _gauche._

There were things, in their line of business, that one simply _did not ask._

"What about Nadia and Angelica, by the way?" Spadino asked, feeling the _something_ stir about dangerously.

"They’re waiting for us at home," Aureliano explained, pulling carefully out of his parking spot, "If I may quote: _"I didn't have him meet his daughter in no bloody prison visiting room, so if you think I’m going to do it in some shitty parking lot north of Latina, you’re out of your God-damned mind, bone-head.”_ That’s what Angè said."

Spadino nodded, with a small smile. Yup, that sounded like his wife.

"Makes sense to me," he easily admitted.

Angelica had been _very_ right – as ever so often. Spadino was more than grateful for the extra time allotted him to prepare for that meeting – especially considering how he had just handled his reunion with Aureliano. Spadino had no idea how he would have behaved, if he had to have seen them all together, all at once – but he was grateful for not having to find out.

Aureliano had left the parking lot, taking the car smoothly into the road that circled it. Spadino looked at the grey enclosure wall of the prison on his right, tall walls crowned with coils of barbed wire, shining in the sun. The courtyard was right behind that concrete, he knew. Spadino wondered if Er Gigante had gone back out there for a walk, or if he’d retreated to his cell, as usual, with Matusalemme silently inviting himself to sit on the bottom bunk, smoking cigarette after cigarette and doing his crossword puzzles while the kid read those brainless Japanese comic-books of his.

It felt extremely odd, being there, in that car, when only a few minutes earlier, Spadino too was right behind there, with the others. All the time Aureliano circled the complex, before rejoining the main road, Spadino did not take his eyes off the grey concrete. And even when, at the mercy of a random curve, the penitentiary disappeared completely from his sight, Spadino kept looking out the window, not knowing exactly what it was he was feeling. He had never been great at introspection to begin with, but whatever little skill he had in that department, he had made sure to shed while he was in jail: that too was part of the _strategy._

"Albè, are you in there?" Aureliano asked, out of the blue, after Spadino did not know how many minutes of his blank staring, "You aren’t saying shit. I’m starting to worry we picked up the wrong guy."

Spadino ran a hand over his face, straightening up in his seat. Watching the road zoom under him made him dizzy, he realized. He was no longer used to being in a car, and the sky seemed almost _too_ big, stretched as it was over the Latin countryside, from horizon to horizon, with close to no obstacles to block it out.

“I’m in, I’m in,” he replied anyway, hoping to sound reassuring, “Sorry. I think I’m just a bit turned-around."

"My dad used to say the same thing," Flavio recalled, "Do you remember that, Aurelià?"

Aureliano answered with one of his short, wordless noises of agreement. He was looking at Spadino from behind his sunglasses, stealing short glances at him while keeping an eye on the road. Spadino pretended not to notice.

“He also did a few years in the nick, here and there,” Flavio was explaining, “And every time he got out, he always said he needed a minute to get his head right about the switch. _Free-man’s hangover, he used to call it."_

Spadino nodded, with a wince that meant he agreed: that was indeed a perfect description of what he was feeling in that moment.

"As long as you tell me it passed," he sighed, tired of it already, and Flavio nodded with a hearty chuckle.

"It passed, it passed."

Spadino wiped his face again, harder, this time. Come on, he had to wake up. No way he was going to meet Rubina looking like some zombie. He was already scary-looking enough now without it...

Lowering the sun visor, Alberto looked at himself in the small flap mirror. He had some dark circles, but he looked awake enough. He ran a hand over his close-shaved head – much easier to keep his hair that way, inside. It wasn't like he had much to fix now, had he? Spadino smoothed the collar of his jacket, zipping it all the way up. Carefully, he flicked off the unwelcome speck of dust that had invited itself on his chest.

"Looks like you’re about to meet the President," Aureliano joked.

Spadino let out a sarcastic laugh. The first one since he was out, actually. It hadn’t taken long – not that he expected any different, in Aureliano’s company.

"Man, fuck your President," Spadino retorted, rolling his eyes, "This girl I'm meeting is someone _much_ more important."

Spadino ran a hand over the photo in his pocket, reflexively. At the same time, with one finger, he followed the messy line of the fresh scar on his face. He traced it all the way from tip – starting at the centre of his bottom lid, just under his right eye – to tail – disappearing in a thinning scratch in the nook under his cheekbone. It was still pretty red, that imprecise arch – inelegant and uneven. Spadino had let his beard grow out a little, hoping it would distract from it a bit, but I really didn’t make much of a difference.

"Do you think they see these, at that age?" Spadino asked, to no one in particular.

He saw Flavio make a “fuck if I know” face in the rear-view mirror, but Aureliano shook his head.

"They don’t," he guaranteed, sounding pretty confident.

Eyes still on the road, he then started asking:

“Is that the one-?"

"The one that made me lose six months of visitation and call rights?" Spadino finished for him, flicking the sun visor shut, “Yep, that's the one. Let's talk about something else, if you don't mind."

So they did. Spadino was grateful for Flavio's presence: if he had to have faced that whole drive alone with that suddenly silent Aureliano, he wasn't at all sure how well he would have managed.

Spurred on by Flavio, Spadino kept himself busy by showing off a couple of his juiciest inmate anecdotes – deliberately setting aside the _many_ others which ranged from just plain depressing to frankly nauseating. It felt good to put on a show – it often did. Aureliano still wasn’t saying much, but he nodded along and smiled at the punchlines, while Flavio laughed heartily and asked a thousand questions. The radio, kept low, played songs that Spadino had never heard before. Traffic on the highway was fluid, even if to him it looked like there was an army of people on the road with them. In the end, that short hour went by very quickly.

Ostia wasn’t too crowded, Spadino noticed as they crossed the city centre on their way to the seafront road. He familiarized himself with her again – the ochre buildings, the dune-facing marinas, the tall pines and various palm trees dotted about the plazas. A glimpse of sea, in the distance, blinded him for a flash, because of the sun that was well on its way to setting behind its horizon. After more than a year of seeing nothing but the same places, the same people, the same grey walls every single day, it was way more exhausting than he had expected to be seeing so much else, all at once. Romans and Ostiensi alike were still sneaking in a last few late beach days, but with the cool of autumn evenings setting in, many were already walking back to their cars, with parasols thrown across their shoulders and children in their arms.

Children. Spadino wiped a hand over the picture again.

He truly hoped the scar wouldn't scare her.

When they reached Villa Anacleti, Spadino almost did not recognize it. He was so used to hearing it before he even saw it, that place, with its chaotic chatter of mixed languages and generations. The building didn't look like itself, not with that half-empty parking lot, and with those tatted-up _gadže_ guarding the gate – Aureliano's men, whose nods Spadino returned as they let them through. The dog cages had been taken apart, and not even a single kid ran around the parking lot to usher the car in. Spadino, once out of the jeep, was still taking all of it in, feeling more than a little lost, when he heard Flavio say goodbye to Aureliano with a hard clap on the hand.

"Alright," the younger man said, "I’ll see you around, then, guys."

"You’re leaving?" Spadino asked, surprised.

"Yeah, I’ve got some stuff to deal with down in Parioli."

Spadino pointed at the jeep, confused.

"We could have dropped you off there," he pointed out, but Flavio just smiled, shaking his head.

"It was nice to tag along," he simply said, before offering Spadino his hand.

They gave each other the same greeting they had in parking lot, a short but solid shake.

 _“Bella,_ Spadì,” Flavio smiled one last time, “Welcome back. Tell me a few more stories, one of these days, won’t you? Oh, and let Nadia know I'll be calling her."

"Okay," was all Spadino was left to say, watching Flavio walk away and slide behind the wheel of an anonymous grey Fiat, before driving off to disappear behind the still-open gate.

Weird kid, that one had always been.

"Albè."

Spadino turned around. Aureliano was waiting for him by the entrance, gentle smile on his lips. _Aurelià,_ dressed in all black, with those dark sunglasses of his, and that familiar, charismatic air to him – posture always confidently relaxed, open, yet naturally authoritative at the same time. Seeing him, _right there,_ was turning Spadino's brain upside-down. It was surreal. It seemed like a lifetime had passed, but also less than an instant, since-

 _A flash._ The smell of gasoline. The sun was setting, practically already sunk behind the nearby buildings. Only a bright, orange glaze was left beaming across that courtyard, grazing along roofs to end up shining a warm gleam on just one side of their faces. Aureliano took off his sunglasses, squinting a little in that copper ray. 

It looked a lot like fire-light.

Spadino averted his gaze, blinking a few times in the vain hope of chasing away the sudden bloody images surging in front of him.

"Hey," Aureliano softly called, closing in with obvious concern.

The guards were long gone, so it was just the two of them, in that parking lot. Once Aureliano got close enough, his face slipped away from that beam of red light, and Spadino could instantly breathe easier.

"Are you alright?"

Spadino nodded curtly, hating himself for his wavering in a moment that was supposed to be so happy. Leaning against the hood of Aureliano's new jeep, he ran a hand over his eyes, doing his best to recover.

Why like that, all of the sudden? What use was his wall of control, if moments like that one could so easily slip out from behind it?

There was no way Spadino would let himself meet his daughter in that state.

"Sorry, bro," Spadino muttered, with obvious frustration, "It's just..."

He rubbed his fingers over his shaved head, looking at the ground. In jail, dismissing those moments was pretty easy, all things considered. All Spadino had to do, if the timing was right, was go to the courtyard for one of his workouts – or just settle for a few push-ups on the concrete floor of his cell, otherwise. And if that wasn’t enough, there was always someone nearby to strike an idle, mindless conversation with, on topics that didn't matter one bit outside of those walls.

But now, when Spadino looked up, he found none other than Aureliano himself, in front of him, with behind him the house where Angelica, Nadia and _Rubina_ were waiting for them.

And that changed everything.

"It's _a lot,"_ Spadino concluded, letting his hand slip away from his face to exhale a deep, tense sigh.

"Do you need a second?"

Spadino shook his head.

“I don't want a second,” he said, honest, and a bit angry too, to tell the truth, “I've waited long enough already, don't you think?"

“That’s true,” Aureliano granted, also coming to lean against the car hood, right beside him, “But we can still take a moment more. It’s not like anyone’s going anywhere. Right?"

He played idly with his sunglasses, as he talked – still folded in his hands. Spadino would have loved to get mad at him. To raise his voice, maybe to ask: "and what the fuck would _you_ know? _You’re_ the one who got to be there for _my_ daughter’s birth,” or something in that vein. Anger seemed so much simpler, in that moment, compared to the mess Spadino felt raging in his head. Aureliano's gentle concern _confused_ him. He wasn't like that, when they talked on the phone.

That wasn't _the deal._

“Look, I'm sorry,” Spadino said again, because he didn't know what else to say, and he felt as tired as if the day had already lasted thirty whole hours, “It's like Flavio said. I feel plastered. I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me."

"Okay, but are you going to stop apologizing?" Aureliano asked, turning to face him, “It’s all you’ve been doing since you got out. If anything, I’m the one who should-"

Aureliano stopped in his tracks, then looked down.

They stayed silent, for a few long moments, leaning against that new car with only a slight rustle of fresh wind whispering through the branches of the trees behind them. The sun had finally disappeared behind the buildings, but the sky was still beautiful, a blaze of orange sunset that slowly went on deepening, first a pale lilac, then a darker and darker purple, almost reaching a royal blue in the distance behind them. So huge, that sky. While he took the sight in, Spadino could hear nothing but the rustle of leaves in the breeze – a sound he had almost forgotten. He was doing his best not to think about how close he was to Rubina, torn between the urge to finally see her, and the humiliating knowledge that he was not ready to do so. Powerless, Spadino could only watch the wall at the back of his mind wobble and contort – on the verge of collapsing.

"What a mess, Albè," Aureliano finally whispered.

 _Albè._ That was another thing that had changed, even over the phone: ever since Aureliano had first called him that, _that night,_ while shouting at him to recover the piece from Vincenzo Sale's corpse, he had never gone back to the old "Spadì." Spadino – _Alberto,_ again, all of a sudden, in the presence of him – didn't mind, but that also did not help make things any clearer. Were they the same as before, or not?

Maybe Aureliano himself wasn’t all that clear on it.

"What a mess," Alberto quietly agreed.

Pulling up with his nose, he rubbed his fingers on his forehead.

"Can you believe I’ve had more than a year, to prepare for tonight?" Alberto murmured, "And yet I still don’t know what to do with myself."

Very softly, without even looking at him, Aureliano raised his hand to place it on Alberto’s knee. Alberto was nowhere near ready for such an intimate gesture – the first of its kind in fourteen long months – and coming from _Aureliano Adami,_ of all people. He felt himself shivering all over, but unfortunately he did not want to pull away, either. Especially when Aureliano slowly began rubbing his leg up and down, a soothing touch that paradoxically gave Alberto goosebumps, at the same time that it released the painful knot he had not even noticed had clogged up his throat.

"Same here," Aureliano admitted, "I guess it's normal, in the end. Right?"

He ran his other hand through his beard, looking up at the sky. Alberto stared at him, at his emperor’s profile – worthy, as always, in Alberto’s eyes, of being pressed into the gold of a million coins.

"There’s, I don’t know, easily a thousand things I’ve been meaning to tell you," Aureliano went on, while Alberto wondered how the hell he could he have been dumb enough to think, even for just one second, that just a year away from that man could have been enough to dent as tragic a feeling as the one Alberto felt, "But tonight, let’s just focus on what matters most, okay? Let’s just take it easy. We’ll have a quiet evening, like we said we would – the five of us. And if we need a minute, or a hundred, along the way, we'll just take them – as many as we need. Fine by you?"

Alberto nodded, breathing in deep. Little by little, in small persistent waves, he felt himself regain some of the hope he had lost – in himself, in them, in that evening.

What else could he do, with Aureliano Adami at his side?

"Fine by me," Alberto finally replied, a little choked – but no longer from fear.

Aureliano smiled at him.

"Good," he just said, and with one last pat on Alberto’s knee, Aureliano winked – returning, in a single second, all beauty to that gesture of which the memory, for Alberto, had remained stained for a whole year.

Pushing himself off the car, Aureliano made his way towards the gate. Folding his sunglasses into his pocket, he turned, waiting for Alberto to follow him. Like a sentinel, stationed to welcome him. 

Alberto got up and let Aureliano guide him inside.

Angelica must have heard the cars, and gotten ready to wait for them, because as soon as Alberto passed the gate, held open by Aureliano, she was already walking briskly towards him. Nadia was there with her, but Alberto no longer saw anyone, when he understood what Angelica, pale in that deepening pink twilight, was holding in her arms.

What she was showing him, before any other form of greeting, rushing to his side only to stop so very close.

Rubina was much bigger than she had been in Alberto’s picture. She was wearing a light pink sleeper, with a matching bandana on her head – keeping a thick tangle of smooth, dark hair away from her forehead. Her eyes, too, were pitch black – like Angelica's. _Exactly_ like Angelica’s. 

Alberto, looking up, saw those very same eyes stare back at him, dark and wet, like pools of ink, and that sight, of them together, of those two pairs of identical, perfect eyes, did to his wall of control what a match’s flame does to cigarette paper: in a second there was nothing left to protect Alberto from _the something._ And what a _something_ it was.

Seeing his daughter for the first time, Alberto felt it crash against him, that unstoppable tidal wave: a whole entire year – maybe more – of accumulated hope, anger, fear and patience, all bottled up without a voice, forced into silence.

Alberto had not cried once since that night at the junkyard, yet in a single second, he was a mess.

“Hey,” was all he could manage out, raising a shaking hand towards Rubina, and feeling big, burning tears pour, free and uncontrolled, in a heavy tumble down his cheeks, “Hi, _beautiful."_

Angelica was in no better state. The ferocious queen of the Sale-Anacleti sniffled, just as inelegant a mess of sloppy tears as Alberto was, in that moment. She pressed herself closer, taking Alberto’s arm, while he reached out to circle her waist, holding her tight. Angelica held Rubina snug between them, rocking her gently – a bridge, a gentle chain binding them together.

"Baby, do you know who this is?" Angelica asked Rubina, her voice shaky – but her face lit by a wide, radiant smile, “Huh? Do you recognise this weirdo?”

Rubina turned in her arms, frowning confusedly – probably wondering what could possibly be the reason behind all that commotion, right in the middle of her well-deserved nap.

With that little frown still on her face, Rubina raised those big black eyes towards Alberto, looking at him quizzically. If she saw the scar, she didn't linger on it. Darting her gaze up and down, Rubina instead chose to grab the index finger of Alberto's shy hand in her own warm little palm, with much determined satisfaction.

"You _do_ know him," Angelica laughed, in between two sniffles, "Of course you know him."

"She’s so pretty," Alberto whispered, staring incredulous, overwhelmed, at that round little face, those soft cheeks, while Rubina continued to squeeze his finger, inspecting it as if it were an alien thing.

"You want to hold her now?" Angelica offered, and Alberto drew a shaky breath.

"Yes," he said immediately, because even though he had a horrible, irrational fear of doing something stupid, the desire to have Rubina in his arms, right then, was an impulse stronger than any worry.

Alberto did his best to wipe his eyes with his shoulder – to little avail, because the tears simply did not want to stop coming. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Nadia and Aureliano were there too, somewhere not far away. But Alberto could not take his eyes from his daughter – _his daughter!_ \- even for a second. Meanwhile, Rubina seemed more annoyed than anything, in feeling Alberto’s finger slip out of her grasp, when Angelica shuffled her around to move her from her arms, into her father's.

"Like this?" Alberto asked, receiving her with infinite care, and Angelica nodded softly.

And just like that, even though Angelica’s hand was still there for support, Alberto was the one holding Rubina – a light, warm little bundle, right against his chest.

She fit into his arms so perfectly. Alberto leaned in closer, rocking her softly. Rubina was looking around, curious, but calm. Facing him again, she gave out a high-pitched squeak. _"Well, what do you want?"_ she seemed to be asking.

"Shit," Alberto sniffled, with the biggest smile he’d felt in years – a stupidly huge thing, wide enough to hurt his cheeks, "God, Rubì, you’re so beautiful."

Oh-so-softly, Alberto placed a long kiss on Rubina's warm forehead, before finally looking up again.

"Hi, Angè," he said, and Angelica only smiled back at him, before bending down to press her own lips to his temple, wrapping her arm around his head, holding him tight.

"Hi, Albè," she replied, in a deep sigh – one of true relief.

They stayed like that for a second. Alberto had closed his eyes, breathing in deep the foreign, deeply comforting smell around him – of soap, flowers, cotton and talc, all mixed together in a sweet cloud. When he opened his eyes again, him and Angelica were holding Rubina together, so Alberto freed a hand to cup the nape of Angelica's neck, just like she had his.

"Wait a minute," Alberto muttered, incredulous, fully realizing the radical change in front of him for the first time, only thanks to that touch, “What the hell did you do to your hair?”

Angelica shook her head lightly – perhaps a residual reflex, because she no longer had any strands at the side of her face to push back. She had cut her hair _crazy_ short, buzzed close all around with barely a bit of length at the top, which shot upwards in playful spikes.

"I needed the change," she said, laughing at his bewilderment, "And believe me, it’s much less of a hustle, with _this one."_

She rubbed Alberto’s skull with the flat of her hand, then, a playful, girlish gesture.

"Besides, you’ve got some gall saying that!" Angelica joked, “Walking in here looking like a whole Sinead O’Connor, for crying out loud!”

Alberto wanted to laugh, but he soon realized that all he could do was look down at Rubina again, and silently rest his forehead against Angelica's.

She went quiet again, too, and for another long second, they swayed together, all three of them – Angelica and Alberto holding each other and Rubina – who, in the middle, had started playing with Alberto's earring – a ruby, always, ever since they’d picked the name.

"We missed you," Angelica whispered.

Alberto breathed deeply, right to the bottom of his lungs – fully free, for the first time.

"Me too," he admitted, just as quietly.

Then, after another, long second of that perfect hold, Angelica gently started pulling back. Alberto did not want to let them go, neither of them – but he also knew that if they listened to him, they would have stayed like that forever. So, Alberto followed the movement, helping Angelica carefully take the baby back in her arms.

“Alright,” Angelica declared, pulling up with her nose one last time and looking up at the sky, blinking fast in an obvious attempt to dry out her eyes, “Now that we’ve made all the proper introductions, can we go back inside, please? It’s still full of mosquitoes, out here."

Alberto cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes with the hem of his sleeve.

"Yeah, sure thing,” he rasped out, “Okay."

Finally able to look towards Nadia and Aureliano, Alberto straightened his jacket a little bit, and approached Nadia with a guilty wince.

"God, where are my manners," he said, extending his hand to her, "I’m being really rude, aren’t I?"

Nadia snorted, rolling her eyes.

"Fucking nonsense," was her only answer.

Accepting his offered hand, Nadia pulled Alberto to her, leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks.

Her eyes were definitely shiny too, and as she pulled back, she wiped them off on the inside of her wrist. Aureliano, who had kept entirely silent until then, gave just a little sniffle, firmly staring at the ground. When he felt Alberto's gaze on him, though, he raised his eyes, and Alberto could see that they were their fare share of wet too, when Aureliano gave him another, complicit little wink – before wiping his nose with the back of his hand and stepping back to leave Alberto and Nadia some space.

"How are you?" Alberto asked Nadia, letting the emotion settle down best he could.

Nadia squeezed his arm, a friendly touch.

"'I’m doing great, man,” she grinned, “How else would I be doing?"

Alberto could look at her better, now that his vision had managed to clear up. Nadia’s dark, almond-shaped eyes, her cheeky dimples, that easy smile. She had changed up her hair too, albeit less drastically than Angelica. Her tight braids had given way to just two large ones on each side, much easier to undo.

But more glaringly, Nadia also had a new scar, on her face: a mean, still-purple dent between her eyebrows – at the spot where, if the rumors were true, Titto Zaccardelli's ring had cut into her when he’d broken her nose with a feral punch. Her bridge was still a little crooked, and it would surely stay that way. But Nadia was there, unlike Titto, so hers was a war wound, one she clearly wore with pride.

In the end, they were all a bit banged up, Alberto thought, but they were still there – and that realization was a deeply comforting one. Without letting Alberto go, Nadia walked towards Angelica – who was still waiting for them, a bored Rubina in her arms.

"Come on, let's get inside," Nadia said, dragging Alberto with her, "Why are we staying out here like some kind of garden gnomes?”

Angelica took Nadia's other, offered arm: they interlocked their elbows, holding one another tight. A gentle hand landed on Alberto's shoulder: it was Aureliano’s, with his eyes still definitely a little shinier than normal. But he was smiling.

Home. _Now_ Alberto recognized it.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic title was inspired by the S3 finale outro song, [Scivola Via](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCl9OYV11Qo&ab_channel=Piotta-Topic) \- by Piotta  
> You can find my own translation of the lyrics [here!](https://twitter.com/saltlordofold/status/1368695937195982849?s=20)


End file.
